"Why," he said, "their scouts have followed us. There are two of them now across the Susquehanna."
Thunderstruck, I stared at the river, where its sunlit surface glittered level through the trees.
"Do the others know this?" I asked.
"Surely, Loskiel."
I looked at my Indians where they lay flat behind their trees, rifles poised, eyes intent on the territory in front of them.
"If my brother does not desire to bring the Wyandotte to General Sullivan, I will go to him now and kill him," said the Mohican carelessly.
"He ought to hang," I said between my teeth.
"Yes. It is the most dreadful death a Seneca can die. He would prefer the stake and two days' torture. Loskiel is right. The Erie has been a priest of Amochol. Let him die by the rope he dreads more than the stake. For all Indians fear the rope, Loskiel, which chokes them so that they can not sing their death-song. There is not one of us who has not courage to sing his death-song at the stake; but who can sing when he is being choked to death by a rope?"
I nodded, looking uneasily toward the river where the two Seneca spies lurked unseen as yet by me.
"Let the men sling their packs," I said.